


Spectrums in Common

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asexual Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Coming Out, M/M, Nail Polish, Pre-Relationship, The Magnus Archives Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23842525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: One day, Jon comes into work with his nails painted a particular set of colors, and Martin takes notice.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 141
Kudos: 708
Collections: Aspec Martin Blackwood Week





	Spectrums in Common

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: [coulson_is_an_avenger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coulson_is_an_avenger/pseuds/coulson_is_an_avenger) made an [absolutely beautiful piece of fanart](https://mossy-rainfrog.tumblr.com/post/617291417151291392/jons-gaze-shifts-back-to-martin-from-where-its) for this fic that might have made me cry? Okay it definitely made me cry. Please go check it out, it's so gorgeous and it captures exactly what I was trying to convey with this fic, it's just magical. <3
> 
> This was written for Aspec Martin Blackwood Week over on Tumblr. I'm so glad I was able to get this in just under the wire, because I love this celebration of ace and aro folks getting to have some fun with this character and I'm so happy to be a part of it!
> 
> No content warnings for this one, just some good ol' fashioned Season 1 fun, with the added bonus of ace solidarity. Hope you all enjoy!

The whole affair starts, bizarrely enough, with Tim’s private stash of nail polish.

Tim keeps his collection in his bottom right desk drawer, the only one that locks, and Martin knows this because everyone knows it. Despite this, Tim will claim that it’s the archives’ best-kept secret, and Sasha and Martin will always just smile and nod in agreement, before sharing a private look behind Tim’s back.

The collection is a “secret” mostly so Tim doesn’t have to share it with anyone besides Sasha. It’s expensive stuff, after all, or so he claims. Martin doesn’t wear polish, so he’s in the clear so long as he doesn’t blab to anyone else in the department (which, of course, would be pointless anyway). And Jon . . . well, Jon might actually be the only one in the archives who really doesn’t know anything about it.

So it sort of makes sense that when the three of them come in one Wednesday morning to find Jon asleep at his desk, where the poor guy has probably been working all night, Tim gets a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Don’t either of you dare wake up sleeping beauty here, I’ll be back in just a second,” Tim stage-whispers at Martin and Sasha, before making a beeline for his cubicle. As if either of them would wake Jon up now, Martin thinks, when he’s probably only slept for two or three hours. He wishes he could convince Jon to go home for the day, but he knows it won’t work, and Jon would probably just get snippy with him for suggesting it at all.

Tim returns with a veritable smorgasbord of colors, having probably just scooped them out of the drawer in an unceremonious rush. He sets them down, quietly, on the carpet and kneels by Jon’s desk, where one spindly hand is splayed out invitingly near the edge. (Martin’s always fancied that Jon’s hands are a bit like spiders, thin and nimble, with long fingers, but he’d never, ever tell Jon.) Tim picks a color at random and gets to work, and a minute later Sasha carefully starts on Jon’s other hand, which is resting near his face.

Martin allows himself a moment to sit back and be quietly amused. Maybe Jon didn’t exactly deserve to have a prank pulled on him just for sleeping off a late night, but he sort of deserved it for certain other things he’s done. Besides, he thinks as he hands Tim a bright, hot pink that Jon would probably hate, it’s only nail polish. He’ll get Jon some cotton balls and a bottle of nail polish remover if Tim doesn’t let him use his.

About an hour later, once they’ve finished their handiwork and returned to their desks, the three of them are startled out of their cramped, shared cubicle by a shout from down the hallway. Tim shoots a devilish grin at Martin and Sasha. “Jon?” he calls back, feigning concern. “Our fearless leader? Whatever could be the matter? Are you ill? Are you under attack? Did the statements finally decide to stage a coup?” He and Sasha have to stifle their laughter, and it’s enough to make Martin crack a smile.

There is a moment of silence, and then Jon’s voice comes back down the hallway, the familiar tone of resigned disappointment clear as a bell: _“Tim.”_

That practically sends Tim rolling, and for a few minutes there’s a lot of good-natured yelling and laughter and wild accusations.

Later that day, after the dust has settled, Martin passes by Jon’s office on the way to get lunch, and happens to glance inside. (Jon doesn’t eat with the assistants, but they’ve all sort of agreed amongst each other that this is less because Jon thinks he’s better than them, and more because Jon simply isn’t the eating-lunch-with-his-coworkers type.) Sure enough, Jon is hard at work, seemingly trying to make up for the handful of hours he lost while sleeping, and although a sad little homemade sandwich sits in its wrapper on the corner of his desk, it’s only got one bite out of it and Martin has a sneaking suspicion it will take Jon until five to actually finish eating it.

The thing that really catches Martin’s eye, though, is the nail polish; Jon’s still wearing it. Tim had done the polite thing and offered to let Jon borrow his remover, and although Martin hadn’t been paying full attention to the conversation he’d assumed Jon had accepted.

Apparently not. Jon’s thin, spidery hands skim over the towers of looseleaf he’s desperately trying to organize, the garish, multicolored nails flashing in the fluorescent lighting like loose bottle caps. There is absolutely no color scheme or pattern to be seen, and some of the nails have glitter and some don’t, and one of Jon’s thumbnails has a little 3-D heart sticker glued to it (probably by Sasha). And Jon— _Jon Sims_ , head archivist Jon Sims, who alphabetizes his desk chachkies—doesn’t seem to care or mind at all.

Martin doesn’t realize that he’s staring at his hands until Jon clears his throat. “Can I help you, Martin?” he says, irritation poking through his voice.

“Oh!” says Martin, tearing his eyes away to meet Jon’s. “Uh. No. I’m . . . I was about to get lunch. With Tim and Sasha. Did you want to, uh. Join us?”

Jon raises an eyebrow. It’s an appropriate reaction; no one in the archives has asked him to join them for lunch since he turned them down the first time. “Maybe another time, Martin.” Almost absentmindedly, his right hand skitters towards his sandwich, and Martin catches a glimpse of the hot pink color he’d picked out on Jon’s pinky finger. “But . . . thank you.”

Martin leaves before he gets caught staring again. Still, for reasons he can only guess at, the mental image of Jon’s nails sticks in his mind all throughout the rest of the day.

The next morning, when Martin goes to bring Jon some tea (black with three spoonfuls of sugar), he notices the nail polish is still on. It’s chipped, slightly, as though Jon had been chewing his nails or picking at them, but it’s definitely still there. Even the heart sticker is still hanging on.

As he hands Jon his tea and they exchange what counts as pleasantries for them, Martin wonders if there would be a way to bring it up that wouldn’t be weird. Eventually, he lands on a lighthearted, “So, did Tim hide the nail polish remover from you after all?”

Jon blinks up at him, for once genuinely confused and not simply irritated. “Come again?”

Martin gestures at his hands. “The nail polish. You’re still wearing it. I can swipe Tim’s remover if you want, you shouldn’t have to buy your own.”

“Oh, right. That. Yes. Well, Tim offered to let me borrow it, but I told him that wouldn’t be necessary,” Jon says, taking a sip of the tea. A bit of pride swells in Martin’s chest when he quickly takes another, longer drink.

“Don’t you want to get the polish off, though?” Martin asks.

Jon looks at him as though he’s grown two heads. “That’s exactly what Tim said. Why does everyone think I want to take the polish off?”

“Um, because Tim and Sasha put it on you as a prank? While you were sleeping?” Martin can’t help but laugh a bit at the absurdity of it all, and Jon’s mystified stare is only making the situation funnier.

“It . . . doesn’t look that bad, though,” Jon says, suddenly defensive. For the first time since Martin walked in the door, he looks down at his nails. “I sort of . . . like the colors.” He worries at one of the chipped bits with his thumbnail, and some glittery-gold paint flakes off and lands on the desk. “Oh,” he mutters, sounding disappointed.

Martin’s heart doesn’t exactly break, not over this, but there’s a twinge of sympathy in his chest. Jon seems suddenly vulnerable, staring down at the mismatched, chipped paint on his nails. Martin can see that he’s teetering on a thin line, and he has a feeling that whichever side he lands on, he won’t be going back. So Martin hopes Jon won’t mind if he gives him a little nudge in the right direction.

“You’re right,” Martin says, trying to sound sure of himself. (It isn’t that hard, in this case. He’s definitely sure that he wants Jon to be happy.) “It doesn’t look bad at all. I think it looks nice on you.”

Jon shoots him a familiar look. It’s part irritation and part suspicion, and it’s the look he gives anyone he suspects might be trying to be nice to him. “Martin . . .”

“I’m serious!” And he really, really is, now. “Tim and Sasha might have done a quick job, and you might’ve already peeled some off, but it doesn’t look half bad on you. And if you really, properly did your nails, and took care of them, I bet—” All at once, Martin runs out of steam, because Jon is looking at him with an expression he doesn’t recognize. It isn’t a _bad_ expression, per se. In fact, it might be the nicest expression Jon’s ever directed his way. “. . . I bet it would look really good,” Martin finishes weakly.

“Do you think so?” Jon says, turning back to his nails with that same look on his face. Wonder, maybe, Martin thinks. It could be wonder.

“Absolutely,” says Martin, just a bit too quietly.

Jon runs the pads of his fingers over the nails, careful not to chip them any more. “Do you think Tim would let me borrow some rather specific colors?”

Martin feels himself smile. “Yeah. Definitely.”

The next day, Martin notices Jon commiserating with Tim, but he doesn’t catch anything they’re saying. He does manage a glance at Jon’s nails, and is bolstered, a little, by the fact that they’re still painted, although the chipping has gotten worse.

He spends the day thinking about what colors Jon might be asking Tim for. _Rather specific_ , he’d said. Maybe Jon just had a particular hue he liked. He struck Martin as the type of person whose favorite color was something like _maroon_ instead of red. His clothes were no help; Martin has a vague memory of Jon telling Sasha that his clothes were mostly all inherited from his dead father and grandfather. Not surprising, considering the shocking number of seventies-era sweater vests he seemed to own, but it also meant that Jon’s typical color palette was brown, light brown, and dark brown. And those weren’t even _his_ clothes.

By the time Martin packs up for the day, he’s settled on Jon’s favorite color being a shade of blue, probably a pastel. It seems appropriately calming for a man who was so often the very opposite. He’s also heard that Jon grew up on the coast, so he imagines that he enjoys the colors of the sea. Whatever the case, he’s looking forward to finding out on Monday.

Martin might have been wrong about Jon’s favorite color. He also might have been right. In the end, he doesn’t actually find out.

When Martin comes into work on Monday morning, he stops by Jon’s office first thing, with the prepared excuse of following up on a recent statement. The door is slightly ajar, and Jon is, of course, already hard at work. His hands are hidden from Martin’s view behind a tower of papers.

Martin raps his knuckles on the doorframe. “Jon?”

“Come in,” Jon says, not looking up.

Once Martin’s inside, he can see Jon’s hands, plain as day, two great spiders combing through sheets of paper and tapping a pen absentmindedly against the desk.

His nails are not pastel blue. They’re not even a shade of brown.

They’re multicolored, like they had been last week, but this time there is a pattern, a very familiar one. One pattern on the left hand, another on the right. On Jon’s left hand, two nails are pink, one is purple, and two are blue. On his right hand, there is a black nail, a grey nail, a white nail, and finally two purple nails.

The first is familiar to Martin. The second is _very_ familiar. For a moment, all he can do is stare at the colors, immaculately applied (there’s no chipping, this time) but so casually presented, as though they were simply a sweater vest Jon had picked out for the day. As though they meant nothing more than wearing his favorite color would have meant.

“Martin?”

Martin looks up to find Jon staring at him, and thanks whoever is up there that he isn’t the blushing type. “Um. Good morning,” he says, unable to think of anything else to say.

Jon blinks at him in surprise. “Good . . . morning. What are you staring at?”

“Uh.” He’s not entirely sure why he’s so nervous to admit it. _Jon_ is the one wearing those colors, plain as day. Don’t people do that sort of thing because they want other people to see it? “Your nails. They look really good.”

“Oh!” Jon says, confusion evaporating from his face. He looks down at his hands and runs his thumbs over the nails, as though he’d forgotten about them until that moment. “Yes, well. Tim let me borrow some colors, so on my day off I gave them a try.”

“You did this yourself?”

“Ye-es,” Jon intones, as though it should be obvious.

“Really?” Martin’s genuinely impressed. “I mean, I don’t know much about it, I’ve never tried wearing it myself, but I imagine it’s not easy to make it look that good on your first try.”

“Oh, believe me, it took a lot more than one try,” Jon says, with actual laughter in his voice. It’s a lovely sound, and one that Martin doesn’t often hear these days. Or ever. “I’ve got a bin full of used cotton balls back at my flat as evidence.”

That gets Martin laughing, and for a single, golden moment, they’re laughing together, the air between them clear and joyful, like Martin’s always wished it would be.

The laughter fades away too quickly, but it gives Martin the lingering confidence to say, “I really like the colors you picked out.”

Jon flashes him a guarded, half-suspicious look. “You do.”

Martin steels his nerves, and nods decisively. “Yes, I do. They . . . suit you.” He hopes that’s enough to make Jon understand.

There’s a flash of a smile, so brief that Martin might have missed it, except that he would never have missed seeing Jon smile. “Good, then,” Jon says, lowering his eyes back to his work. “That’s good to know. Thank you, Martin.”

“Sure,” Martin says, backing out the door. “I’ll see you at eleven, then. If you’ll be wanting tea?”

“I . . .” Jon looks back up at him, a question in his eyes that he blinks away. “That would be nice, yes. Thank you.”

Martin is halfway to his cubicle before he realizes that he forgot to give Jon his excuse for stopping by in the first place. Too late now, he supposes, and he honestly finds it hard to really care. He’s got two _thank yous_ and a smile under his belt, and the image of Jon’s painted nails in his mind’s eye. Today, he feels absolutely unstoppable.

Tim is already at his desk, and Martin takes the opportunity to ask if he can borrow some _rather specific_ colors. Tim hems and haws and makes a halfhearted complaint that everyone’s taking advantage of his selfless goodwill these days, but in the end of course he lets Martin have whatever he asks for.

“Anything to help you impress the boss,” Tim says, grinning like a shark.

“That’s _not_ what this is about.”

“Sure it isn’t.” Tim actually winks at him, and if Martin weren’t already bolstered up with enough confidence to last the rest of the day, he’d probably be out the door. Instead, he picks up the bottles he chose, promises to return them in the morning, and makes his way over to his desk with as much nonchalance as he can muster.

When Martin brings Jon his tea at eleven sharp, he gets yet another _thank you_ , and when Jon picks up the mug with both hands to take a drink, his nails align all in a row down its side, the two patterns overlapping into one long string of color. It’s a small thing, really, but Martin thinks about those overlapping colors for the rest of the day.

That night, he tries to paint his nails for the first time. And the second time. And the third. It winds up taking about six tries for him to get all ten nails to look at least passable, and some of them actually look pretty decent. In the end, it’s not too horrible of an activity, and Martin finds himself sort of enjoying the feeling of painting on the polish with the tiny brush, at least when he isn’t accidentally getting it all over his cuticles.

As the paint dries, he stares down at his hands, splayed across a stained paper towel on his kitchen table. The colors he chose stare back up at him. On his left hand, he’s painted the colors of the rainbow (well, five of them, at least). His right hand is identical to Jon’s: black, grey, white, and purple.

Martin’s never really been the type to wear pins, or flags, or go out to crowded bars or parades. He’s never been to a pride event in his life, not even after his mother moved out. He discovered who and what he was mostly through the process of elimination, figuring out that he wasn’t interested in relationships with women, and then, much later, figuring out that he wasn’t interested in sex with anybody.

He likes to think of himself as quiet and proud. If someone asks him directly, he’ll be glad to answer, but he doesn’t tend to wear his identity on his sleeve.

So it’s a little strange, seeing the colors— _his_ colors, and what a strange thought that is in itself—displayed so blatantly like this. He’s not sure if he enjoys it, but he doesn’t _not_ enjoy it, and besides, he’s doing this for Jon. It doesn’t matter if anybody else knows, or sees them, because Jon’s is the only opinion he really cares about.

He tries to bring that thought with him when he leaves for work the following morning, but it doesn’t help much. From the moment he leaves his flat and heads out into the busy streets, he’s hyper-aware of the paint on his nails, and he wonders how many people are able to see them as they rush past. On the Tube, surrounded by other commuters, packed in like sardines, he wonders if any of them know what they mean. He wonders if any of them are like him. He wonders what he would do, if he saw a stranger on the Tube with painted nails that matched his own colors. Would he even get a chance to say something to them? Would he want to?

By the time he descends the cramped stairwell into the archives, he’s buzzing with anxiety, though he’s not sure exactly why. It’s not as though he’s anxious to talk to Jon; their conversations have been better than ever lately. He glances down at his nails before he heads to Jon’s office, making sure they’re still pristine, and they are. Nevertheless, looking down at them causes a spike of anxiety to roll through his stomach.

He does his best to shake it off, and practically runs to Jon’s office before he can lose his nerve.

Once again, the door is ajar, and Jon is, once again, already elbow-deep in paperwork and colored tabs. Once again, Martin raps on the doorframe to get his attention, but is careful to keep his hands hidden from view.

Jon actually looks up, this time. “Oh, hello Martin. Come in,” he says, voice measured and neutral, but Martin fancies that he can hear a bit of a smile in that voice.

“Morning, Jon,” Martin says, and then realizes he does not know what to say next. He hadn’t even planned on making an excuse for showing up. Still, he can hardly start the conversation with _Would you look at that, we share the same sexual orientation, isn’t that something?_

“Do you . . . need something?” Jon says, after a moment of silence from Martin. He brings up one hand to rest his chin on, and Martin notices that the polish is the same as yesterday. It’s still in good condition, but there are chips here and there, as though Jon had been absentmindedly picking at them and then caught himself before it could go too far.

“Um . . . the . . . statement from last week?” Martin wracks his brain to remember which one he would’ve been asking about. “About that poor woman who was stuck in the underground alone for three hours? I knew Sasha was doing a follow-up, so I wanted to, um, find out what she, um, found.”

Jon doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, I remember,” he says, a tad impatiently, as he goes to dig through one of the massive piles of papers on his desk, his colorful, spidery hands rushing into action. “That statement was horribly vague, unfortunately, so Sasha didn’t have much to go on, and she found even less. Still, I’ll give you what she got—if I can find the bloody thing . . . Ah-hah!”

Martin almost jumps at the outburst as Jon pulls a single printed sheet out of the pile and hands it to him victoriously. Stifling the urge to laugh, which he knows Jon won’t appreciate, even if it’s meant to be fond, he reaches for the paper.

When he grips it and pulls, Jon doesn’t let go. Martin looks up, a question already on his tongue, but he stops short when he sees Jon’s face.

Jon is staring at Martin’s right hand, where fingers topped with black, grey, white, and purple are gripping the paper. His expression is completely unreadable.

For a moment, they both just stand there, completely silent and still. Martin could swear even the clock on the wall stops ticking. Finally, Jon lets go of the paper, and Martin’s right hand falls to his side.

“I—” they both say at the same moment, then stop. “You can go—” they both say in unison, then stop again.

Martin does laugh, this time, and Jon cracks a smile. “Okay,” Martin says, before Jon can get another word in, “ _I’ll_ go first, then.” He takes a breath, and happens to glance at Jon’s hands where they rest on the desk, the colors so similar to his own. A bit of yesterday’s confidence comes back to him. “I, um, I guess you can tell that I noticed the colors you picked. This,” he holds up his right hand, “isn’t just me stealing your fashion, or anything like that. I . . . I know what they mean. Because in a way, they’re my colors too, I suppose. And these,” he holds up his rainbow-painted left hand, “these are also mine. You, ah, you were so confident, wearing yours yesterday, like you didn’t even care if anyone saw. Like it was no big deal for you. It made me want to try it out for myself. Even though I’ve never worn nail polish before and I might’ve stained my kitchen table permanently and I’m pretty sure I owe Tim a favor now. And, and I’m sorry if this is . . . inappropriate, or unprofessional of me, but I . . . I just really wanted you to know that we have this thing in common.”

There’s more he wants to say, but he also wants to give Jon a chance to talk, so he stops himself. Jon is staring at him with an incredible intensity that would be terrifying in any other context, his brow furrowed and his eyes piercing, but Martin can see that he keeps glancing at Martin’s nails, and running his thumbs over his own.

There’s a moment of charged silence before Jon speaks. His voice is surprisingly soft, despite the look in his eyes. “I’m not . . . I’m not usually so open, about this sort of thing. About my, ah, identity. Or, I suppose it would be identities, plural. Anyway, if I seemed confident yesterday, it’s because I just forgot what I was wearing, for a second. If I’m honest, Martin,” Jon says, and there’s a dry little laugh that’s more sad than anything, “if I’m completely honest, when I sat down on Saturday night to put on that nail polish, my hands were shaking so badly I went through almost the whole bottle of purple by the time I got everything looking right.”

Martin just watches as Jon’s hands twist in on themselves, a spasm of anxiety that Martin has never seen from Jon before, but that he’s done himself so many times that there’s an intimate familiarity in the gesture. He’s struck by an urge to still Jon’s hands with his own, to hold them in place, the colors of their fingernails forming a unique pattern all their own.

“All day yesterday,” Jon goes on, “I kept forgetting they were there, and then I’d reach for a pencil or my tea, and I’d be reminded again. And I’d have to sit and stare at them for a second. Like I didn’t even believe they were my own hands. I don’t know how I got any work done. And I kept thinking, _What am I doing? Is this really how I want to come out to my coworkers?_ And then you came into my office, and . . . you noticed. You _knew_.”

Jon’s gaze shifts back to Martin from where it’s drifted off into the middle distance, the intense look on his face replaced with something else. Wonder, Martin thinks. Definitely wonder.

“That . . . that helped, Martin. I know it probably didn’t seem like it, but . . . it helped. A lot. Honestly, I was planning to wipe it all off when I got home last night. But what you said convinced me not to.” Jon clears his throat and looks back down at the desk again. “So, uh, thank you. For that.”

Martin knows that later that day, when he’s back in his cubicle and supposed to be working, he’ll be turning those words over and over in his head, analyzing them, preserving them. He’ll feel the buzz of adrenaline and relief in his fingertips as he tries to type, thinking, over and over, that of all things, _he_ helped _Jon_ with this. Right now, though, he has something to say. “I won’t take mine off if you don’t.”

Jon looks back up at him, and there’s a deer-in-headlights look for a second before he settles into a genuine smile. “Okay. Sounds like a deal.”

Martin sticks out his right hand. “Shake on it?”

Just for an instant, as Jon’s hand closes over his, Martin can see that their colors are perfectly aligned.

Things mostly go back to normal after that, or at least what counts as normal for the archives. Jon is much friendlier to Martin, which is a nice change of pace, and they talk a lot more. Tim’s stash is still known to everybody, but no one even thinks of stealing from it, not because they’re afraid, but because it’s Tim. He does complain that, in addition to sharing with Sasha, he has to share with Jon _and_ Martin now.

This is because Jon and Martin have taken their deal very seriously. They wear their colors every day for weeks, until the paint almost completely chips off, and then they apply them again. One Friday morning Martin comes in to see Jon with his colors painted in stripes on each nail, little miniature flags that must have taken him ages to do. The following Tuesday, Martin comes in with his colors in alternating patterns, the rainbow spectrum mixing with the purple and grey hues on every other nail. It isn’t nearly as elaborate as Jon’s, but he gives Martin an appreciative nod all the same.

One day, months after applying nail polish for the first time, Martin is sitting on the Tube, heading to work, and happens to glance down at his nails. His hands are resting on his thighs, bracing against the rattle of the train, and his nails are splayed out for anyone to see.

He looks up and casts his gaze over the crowd of passengers. Everyone seems to be looking at their phones, or a newspaper, or are just zoned out completely.

But then, just when he’s about to look back down at his own phone to check the time, Martin notices a woman sitting in a seat by the door, across the aisle from him. She looks about mid-twenties, and is wearing a slate-colored backpack and a dark sweater. Her hair is tied back in a high ponytail. She’s staring across the aisle directly at Martin’s hands, with a look on her face that Martin can’t precisely name, but that he completely understands.

His fingers twitch slightly, and that seems to snap her back to the present. She blinks a few times and when she looks up, she makes eye contact with Martin. Quickly, before she can look away, he gives her a smile.

For a second, she just stares at him, and then slowly begins to smile back. They smile at each other for a few seconds before looking away.

The incredible thing is, in the space of those few seconds, Martin realizes that he doesn’t feel anxious at all.

He doesn’t see the woman on the Tube again after that day, but sometimes, on his morning commute, he imagines that wherever she is, she’s decided to put on some colors.

**Author's Note:**

> Please go check out [coulson_is_an_avenger's fanart](https://mossy-rainfrog.tumblr.com/post/617291417151291392/jons-gaze-shifts-back-to-martin-from-where-its) if you haven't yet!
> 
> Also, all of the wonderful people commenting on this inspired me to buy some nail polish and do my nails in the bi flag and ace flag colors :) So, if you're curious, [this is what Jon's nails would look like.](https://dickwheelie.tumblr.com/post/617330360928403456)
> 
> I know I was concentrating mostly on Martin's and Jon's shared asexuality in this, but I want to make it clear that Jon being biromantic and Martin being homoromantic (or however you'd like to headcanon him, of course this was just my interpretation) are just as important aspects of their identities as being ace is. If you're one of those people like me out there with multiple identities and labels, know that no one aspect of your identity is inherently more important than any other. They're all a part of YOU, and that's the important thing! We're all multidimensional, fully realized creations, after all.


End file.
